


Warriors Don’t Cry (working title)

by Guywhowritesgay



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Davy’s A+ Parenting, Emotional Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Prince Simon Salisbury, Royalty AU, Simon Snow Whump, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, Whump, angsty angst, but also fluff i promise, like this has a lot of angst, selective mutism, selectively mute Simon Snow, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28701492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guywhowritesgay/pseuds/Guywhowritesgay
Summary: Prince Simon Salisbury lost his mum, the Queen, at age 5. He grows up a warrior under the reign of his father, the King.Until one day...
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I’m very excited for this fic, but I’m not always good at remembering to write. If it’s been a while, yell at me in the comments. 
> 
> I don’t want to keep you too long, so... enjoy!

A torrenting rain fell down in sheets upon the gathered crowd in the large castle cemetery. A mournful wind whistled in between the trees and silent headstones, nipping at wet cheeks and damp hair. There was a silent agreement amongst the small gathered crowd not to mention the weather and how dreadfully appropriate it was.

King Davy stood still, his head bowed in respect to the brand new headstone in the ground. His shoulders hunched, as they now bore a weight they never had before, and he felt it weigh him down as the rain fell around him. He was still, but inside he was shattered. Something inside of him broke that day that his love died. 

The hand he was holding of the five year old next to him was trembling as the boy shook with grief. The little one had felt a loss nobody should feel at that age, a loss so consequential, that there was no doubt that things would never be the same. His blue eyes were wide with shock, but heavy with tears, and his bronze hair was a sopping mess in the storm.

The poor boy couldn’t even read the smooth marble headstone. He had to ask someone to read it out to him. Father and son both stared at the etched words, marking the forever resting point of one they both loved. 

LUCY ROSE SALISBURY

DEVOTED MOTHER AND WIFE

LET MAGIC LIVE ON 

R.I.P.

The King let out a tentative breath. His little boy looked up at him, blue eyes clouded with tears and rain. Davy looked down at him, his face stoic and cold, despite all that he felt inside. An uneasy silence passed between the two as the little boy tried to find his words.

“Father? I...I’m cold,” Simon said, his voice quaking. These were the first words he’s said since… the incident. “Can we go home?” He kept his eyes on his father, but let his words fall away. His father looked away. 

“In a minute, boy,” Davy said, kneeling down before the headstone. “I must… say goodbye first.”

Davy put two fingers to his lips, and then slowly reached those two fingers out to the cool surface of the marble. His final kiss to the departed. 

“My Lucy…” His voice was almost inaudible over the sound of the rain that had picked up. He vowed his head once again, and with a small flourish of his wrist, he conjured a single, beautiful rose, the red petals almost mocking the dullness of the day around them. 

_Rosebud...Simon, my rosebud boy._ That’s what Lucy would call her son. _Simon, my beautiful, beautiful rosebud boy._

“The Normals took you from me. From our Simon… from our kingdom…” he gently laid the rose up against the headstone bearing her name. “I couldn’t be better about it, and now our kingdom will suffer from it. Our boy will grow up without a mother…” 

Simon stood behind his father, wringing out his hands and blinking rain and tears from his eyes. He looked nothing like the boy who, a week ago, had been running through his kingdom, eyes brighter than the sky and cheeks rosy with childish abandon.

“All because I couldn’t stop the Normals.” Davy sighed and stood up. “My rosebud, my Lucy. I will be better for you, and for our kingdom, and for our boy.” He turned around, and his brown eyes met Simon’s blue. Lucy’s blue. “Simon, my boy,I’d like you to say a few words, please. Out of respect.“ 

Simon opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt heavy and his jaw felt fragile, and his words felt like that fleeting moment before your flight instinct kicks in. So he shook his head. 

“Use your words,” Davy pressed, giving the five-year-old a firm grasp on his shoulder. 

Simon looked up at his father, and then at the headstone, trying to find the voice for his words. _Use your words, Simon_. He took a deep breath, and, wiping away his tears, he began to speak as he traced the engraved lettering with his eyes. 

“Mum, I— I mi- I miss you...a-a lot…” Simon’s voice was soft as he trailed off, unable to say anything else. He couldn’t. His lips wouldn’t move if he tried. He looked up at his father to gage his reaction. Davy allowed himself a small smile, before he reached out a hand towards his son. 

The rain continued to fall, even when everything was soaked. Simon picked at the hem of his black outfit, which hadn’t been dry since before he first stepped out here before the service. A distant clap of thunder rumbled like stones down a mountain, and a minute later, a crazed arc of lightning flashed through the sky. Simon felt his magic prickle under his skin, as he always did during a storm. Something about the _chaos_ of it all resonated inside him, like it understood his out of control magic in a way that nobody else could understand.

Wordlessly, Simon took his hand, and together they walked, father and son, away from the grave, where the small gathered crowd laid their respects one by one. 

“Lady Lucy…” Simon could hear someone— Sir. Wellbelove—begin, but he was much too cold and exhausted to listen anymore. His limbs felt like lead, and his mind felt like a hive swarming with bees. Ever since… his mum’s incident, he’d been quiet. Exhausted. He had been such a loud boy before, but in the past few days, he’d hardly said a word to anyone. Not even Ebb, the royal castle’s gamekeeper. Everything was… too much for him.

Nobody pressed him to talk either, save for his father and a few more official members of his court. Losing a parent was a lot for a young boy to go through, and he needed his time. 

So he walked, hand in hand with his father, away from the crowd. Away from the rain and the rose and the reality of it all… 

Away from where his Mum was laid to rest forever.

꧁꧂

“Your highness, are you sure this is the best time to be doing this?”

King Davy arched a singular eyebrow at Sir Wellbelove, who had addressed him. “I beg your pardon?” 

His tone was icy, and his brown eyes narrowed on the captain of his Royal Guard, who had addressed him. Sir Wellbelove took a step back. He was never one to cower under the gaze of the king, but for the past month, the king hadn’t been himself. 

No…

It had been longer than a week. The king hadn’t been himself for a while. Weeks, months… maybe it’s been years. Sir Wellbelove cleared his throat and took a minute to regain his composure. 

“Your highness, with all due respect, as King, all peoples of your kingdom look to you, and that includes Normals—“ Davy let out a hum of displeasure at that word, narrowing his eyebrows and grinding his jaw. Sir Wellbelove faltered, but then continued from where he had trailed off. 

“— And you have already made it public knowledge that you blame Normals for Lucy’s death. The Normals haven’t been too happy about that.” Sir Wellbelove stated, and braced himself for the King’s reaction. 

“Haven’t been too happy? Haven’t _been too happy?_ ” Davy stood abruptly from his throne, throwing his hands about in a wild gesture. “I _lost my WIFE,_ and you’re telling me they _haven’t been too happy_?”

Sir Wellbelove bowed his head. “I apologize, sir. Poor choice of words. But regardless, if you carry out this plan, you might lose all support you’ve had from them.”

Davy took a deep breath and combed his fingers through his hair. He took a few steps away from his throne, but turned back on his heel and began to pace about. 

“I am their king,” he said, feigning a collected nature. He was burning inside. _Normals had no right to be unhappy in this kingdom._ “I require their undivided loyalty!”

Sir Wellbelove watched the king carefully as he paced. He eyed the ferocity in which Davy turned on his heel to walk the other way. Davy was a lit fuse, and would blow at a slip up, or a wrong word. 

“Yes, your highness. You’ve done brilliantly in securing the safety of this kingdom,” he began. “But you cannot order raids on the Normals for simply being Normal. Not at this time, at least.” 

Davy whipped around to glare at the man bowed in front of him. “Fredrick,” he said, a stern bite in his voice. “Need I remind you who is _king_ here?”

“My deepest apologies, sir, but I am telling you,” Sir Wellbelove looked Davy in the eye, neither man willing to back down. “This isn’t the right time.”

Davy ran a hand over his shabby excuse of a goatee and sighed as he sat back down in his throne. “Tell me, Fredrick. If I had proposed this plan of action at any other time,” he paused to look the other man in the eyes. “Would you support my decision?”

Sir Wellbelove bowed his head again in consideration. Running the idea over and over in his head, he began to weigh the consequences. 

“There are…” he bit his lip, interrupting his own train of thought. He started again. “Some parts of your proposed plan I don’t agree with, but I would support you, your highness. I am, after all, your right hand man.”

Davy grinned devilishly. “Brilliant. So… as much as I’d like to enact these changes in my kingdom now, I do suppose it could wait a few months. Run the plan by me again, would you?” 

Sir Wellbelove nodded and pulled his wand out from his robes. Giving it a hasty flick, he conjured a well-worn notebook. He opened it up to the appropriate page and cleared his throat as he began to read. 

“Your plans, your highness, include routine house checks for Normals under suspicion. Nobody can refuse these, and we’re permitted to do what we want with any suspicious items found there.” He paused to look up at the king, who was nodding. 

“Secondly, taxing on the working class, specifically jobs often held by Normals,” Sir Wellbelove continued. Davy nodded again. 

“Finally, I am permitted to use my royal guard to intimidate— and sometimes eliminate— potential threats, like you ordered me to do with—“ Davy waved his hand, cutting off Sir Wellbelove in the middle of speaking. 

“Yes, yes, that’s all very well. Now since you have such strong feelings about doing this _now,_ what should our timetable look like?” He asked, arching an eyebrow. 

Sir Wellbelove glanced down at his notebook and then back up at the king. “I believe if you wait a month and let the kingdom mourn their queen, you should be able to implement these changes without much harsh pushback.” 

“Without _much?”_ Davy scoffed. “Fredrick, you are not the captain of my guard and my right hand man only to tell me there won’t be _much_ pushback.” He studied the man before his throne. “I want _none_.”

“Well, your highness, I can’t guarantee that, due to the nature of your kingdom and the likelihood of Normals rebelling—“ Davy cut Sir Wellbelove off once again with a searing glare. 

“You have an _army_ at your disposal, Fredrick.” He took a deep breath to calm his steadily rising temper. “Do you understand what I’m asking of you?” 

“Yes, I do, your majesty, but I’m telling you that there might be some Normals— or even some Mages from the Old District— who don’t agree with this. A few might try and rally…” Sir Wellbelove tried to hold Davy’s gaze, but failed when he realized his words only upset the king more. 

“And I’m telling you, _Wellbelove_ , that if a few Normals…” he enunciated each syllable with malicious intent. “Or even untrustworthy Mages,” he added, rolling his eyes slightly. “Have to go... _missing…_ in order for this to go over smoothly…” he eyed Sir Wellbelove with a dangerous fire. “You will follow through with that, yes?” 

Sir Wellbelove swallowed hard and nodded, trying to stomach his anxieties about this whole situation. 

“I’m glad we’re in agreement on that, my friend.” Davy beamed with a false sense of security. “You are dismissed for the night, I expect—”

A sudden clatter interrupted the king’s words. Both men snapped their heads in the direction of which the noise had come, Fredrick instinctively going for his sword as well. 

To both men’s relief, the noise had been caused by a suit of armor falling off the armor stand in which it stood, and in the middle of the mess, a very sleepy, very sad five year old. 

“Simon,” Davy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What are you— Fredrick, you’re free to go, Simon...come here.” 

Sir Wellbelove bowed towards his king, before turning and walking out of the chamber. On his way out, he passed Simon, who was struggling to stand up amongst the fallen armor. 

Eventually Simon got himself free, and he shuffled over to where his father sat on his large throne. It was rather intimidating for the small child. 

“What are you doing up, boy, I had Lady Possibelf put you to bed hours ago.” Davy looked down at the tired boy before him. 

Simon looked down and fiddled with the hem of his nightshirt, staying silent. Instead he simply shrugged, hoping that that small response would be enough for his father.

“Use your words, Simon. It’s late, why are you awake.” Davy gave no room for Simon to feel comfortable admitting he couldn’t talk. He couldn’t get the words to fit right on his tongue, and he couldn’t get his mind to stop running faster than he could handle. 

“N-n-ni—” he stuttered, his jaw trembling. “N-um..night-nightm-nightmares…”

Davy sighed. “Is this not something you could’ve gone to Lady Possibelf about?” He looked at his son, who shook his head meekly. “Alright. What were these nightmares about?” 

The king waited for any kind of response from Simon, but got nothing outside of a small head shake. 

“Words, son,” Davy insisted again, but Simon shook his head more as tears sprang to his eyes. He gripped the bottom of his nightshirt tight in his fist as he slowly began to tremble. 

Davy sat back in defeat. “Alright, then. Why don’t we do this. Simon, look at me.” 

Simon looked at him. 

“Warriors don’t get nightmares, correct?” Davy waited for a response and got it in the form of a simple nod. “Right. Warriors don’t get nightmares. And Simon, my boy, you’re going to be a warrior.”

Simon’s teary face expressed confusion as he looked up at his father. He was five, hardly a warrior… 

“Walk with me, Simon,” Davy said, standing up from his throne. He walked towards the entrance of the room, Simon trailing a few steps behind him. They walked towards the east wing of the castle, which was decorated with the military achievements of Davy, his father, and his father before that. 

Simon looked up at a large portrait of his great-grandfather, almost cowering due to the size and power of his likeness. 

“You come from a long family of warriors. Soldiers. Men who look at death in the face and come out victorious.” Davy was standing in front of a different portrait, one of himself. He admired it with a small smirk and an approving nod. 

He shifted his gaze towards Simon, who was now staring at a sword displayed in a glass case. 

“The Sword of Mages. My own great-great-grandfather forged that blade with his own hands, and infused it with his own powerful magic.” Davy reached forward and lifted the glass off of the pedestal, letting the power of the sword surround himself and the young boy who was drawing closer and closer to it. 

“It will be yours, one day, Simon. The true mark of a royal warrior.” Davy let Simon place his hand on the hilt of the sword, and he watched as Simon’s eyes widened. 

Simon could feel the power surge through his body the moment he placed his hand on the beautiful weapon. It felt... _right_. Like it was forged to be his. He knew that if he were to pick it up, the blade would fit awkwardly in his little five-year-old- hands, so he allowed himself to let go as Davy moved to replace the glass protector around the sword. 

Simon used his sleeve to wipe some of his tears away as he continued to stare at the weapon. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it? And when you’re grown up, it’ll be yours.” Davy watched Simon marvel at the blade. “But here’s the thing.” 

Davy knelt down, so he was eye-to-eye with his son. Brown eyes met blue in a stern moment of shared emotions. 

“Warriors don’t get nightmares. Right? Warriors are tough, and follow directions.” Davy said. Simon blinked and nodded, causing Davy to smile and ruffle his fluffy bronze hair. 

“Right, then,” the king said, standing up. “If you’re anything like the warrior you’re meant to be, you’ll head back to bed, and stay there. If you simply _have_ to get up, you know where Lady Possibelf’s quarters are.” He led Simon out of the wing and back towards the throne room. 

“Lady Wellbelove,” Davy said to a woman standing nearby as he walked away from Simon. “Tell your husband I’ve changed my mind, we roll out the raids in the morning.”

Tears sprang back to Simon’s eyes as he was left alone, the emptiness of the throne room seeming to swallow him. He wrapped his arms around himself and trudged back to his room, where he got in bed, hugging his pillow right. 

Tears began streaming down Simon’s face as he tried to find sleep. He missed his mum. He missed her voice and the gentle kisses she’d give him before he drifted off to sleep. 

_Warriors don’t cry, Simon._

_Warriors don’t cry._

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon, now 20, is faced with his impending wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me a hot minute to write but I’m so excited, and I love hearing feedback so please comment!! 
> 
> Okay enough from me.

“Okay, now hold your arms out like so— perfect. Hold still while I make alterations, thank you…”

Simon shifted uncomfortably where he was standing, holding his arms out as instructed. The royal tailor has been poking and prodding him with pins and needles for the better part of four hours, and he was exhausted. 

Stupid wedding. 

It hadn’t been Simon’s idea to get married of course. Hell, it hadn’t even been Simon’s idea to have anyone be his girlfriend, or fiancée or whatever. The only thing that mattered to him was the betterment of the kingdom.

“How does that feel, sir?” The tailor asked, giving Simon’s sleeve a quick tug. Simon shrugged. He took a minute to examine the way the suit fit on him. It wasn’t too bad, actually. It fit him fine in the shoulders, which was nice. Not many of his outfits fit him perfectly. 

_ It feels fine.  _

“Sir?” The tailor looked at him when there was no response. Simon blinked and tried to form the words. The tailor lowered his needles and waited for a response, or at least some acknowledgement that he’d been heard.

Simon just looked down and shrugged again.

“Use your words, boy,” came a voice from the doorway. Simon knew who it was without looking, but he turned around anyways to see his father standing regally in the doorway, somehow looking menacing in his bright green robes. 

_ It feels  _ fine. Use your words, Simon, it feels  _ fine. _

“ _ Simon _ ,” Davy snapped. “You were asked a question. Answer him.” Davy eyed Simon as he strutted into the room. The tailor who had been working on Simon’s outfit gave a curt bow to the king, before looking back at Simon. 

The tension in the room rose quickly, each second Simon didn't respond, Davy only looked more and more disappointed. 

“Just let me know if it fits right, your highness.” The tailor straightened out Simon’s sleeves once again, and waited for Simon to respond. 

Simon  _ hated  _ being called ‘highness’.

“It f- it- it- it fits—“ Simon took a deep breath to slow his thoughts and calm his nerves. “F-fi-feels-feels fi- feels fine…” 

Davy threw him a disapproving glance, which weighed on Simon more than he wished it would. “I thought we fixed that, son. That bloody stutter. It doesn’t make you very respectable.” 

Simon fiddled with the hem of the outfit the tailor was working on, but the tailor swatted his hand away with an utterance of “careful” and “that will mess it up”. Now without something to stim with, Simon not only felt pressured by his father, but discomfort was bubbling up in his chest and racing through his veins. 

“I-I’m…” Simon took another deep breath and began to speak slowly, trying his damn hardest to keep his stutter at bay. “I’m so- I’m sorry...father.” 

Davy sighed and nodded. “Good enough. Now, Simon, my boy. Your wedding is in a week, on your birthday, as you know. This will be an important day, because the Old Families will be in attendance. They’re traditionalists, and they wouldn’t miss a wedding.” He began to pace back and forth, as the tailor spun Simon around to work on another part of his robes. Davy looked his son up and down once before continuing.

“However, the Old Families have made alliances with Normals in spite of you,” he said, throwing Simon a glance.

_ Me? I’m just the nameless, voiceless prince carrying out your bidding. _

Simon nodded. He tried to ignore the ice-cold feeling gripping his heart. The familiar numbness that came with being a child soldier.

“Prince Salisbury, if I could have you try this on—“ the tailor continued to dress Simon and alter the outfit, all the while Davy mused on about the Old Families. Words blended together before they reached Simon’s ears. His father paced and spoke and paced and spoke, and he was poked and prodded and his robes were snipped and altered, and everything was moving fast, fast  _ fast,  _ and the room was spinning. 

“Once you are wed, you will officially be the crown prince, and will be permitted to adopt a more public persona, but until then, you still do as I tell you, understand?”

Davy’s voice echoed out like an unwanted beacon amongst a raging sea.

Simon showed no response, no acknowledgement that his father had even spoken. He fought hard to show no sign of his internal spiral

“Use your words, boy,” the king snapped. 

Simon remained silent. 

“Simon Salisbury, you answer me when I speak to you,” Davy huffed, anger bubbling up inside of him. 

“Yes, sir…” Simon shut his eyes in hopes to drown out everything. The tailor’s needles clicking together. His father’s shoes tapping against the cold floor. The birds outside the window chirping, and the sun streaming in, it was too…. _ too much.  _ Everything felt like  _ too much _ , like it was squeezing him. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the pace at which his heart was pounding.

“Now with the Old Families in attendance, you must talk to them, get them on our side.” Davy walked up to Simon, staring him in the eyes. They were normally about the same height, but as Simon now had to stand on the tailor’s pedestal, the king had to look up to meet his son’s gaze. 

Simon opened his eyes to look back at his father, but averted his gaze when it all became too much.

“Now as I was saying. For all these years, I’ve kept you under strict secrecy. The kingdom hardly knows you. They don’t know your name, only that you fight for me and uphold the legacy of our kingdom. To them, you are simply Prince Salisbury.” Davy started to pace again. “But once you are married, you may change that. Let our kingdom know your name, and let it strike fear into our enemies.”

Simon’s breathing picked up in pace. 

_ He gripped the hilt of his sword and was panting hard, his shoulders rising and falling with each gasp for air. Countless bodies lay around him, bloody and lifeless.  _

_ Their blood was on his hands. Literally. It was still warm, but only made him feel emptier inside.  _

_ Those who were living looked at him in fear. From what he could see under his helmet, Simon saw horror in their eyes. A mother held her kid close and they cried together as Simon slowly paced around the carnage. _

_ Long live the king.  _

_ This is why he did it all. Because his father asked.  _

_ Kill them, Simon.  _

_ You know your job, Simon. _

_ Threaten them, Simon. _

_ Use your words, Simon. _

_ Keep our legacy strong, Simon. _

_ Don’t let them know how broken you are, Simon. _

_ Keep your face hidden, Simon.  _

_ Use your words, Simon. _

_ You want to be king one day, don’t you, Simon? _

_ This is the reality of kingship, Simon. _

_ You do my dirty work until you’re king, Simon. _

_ Is that what you want, Simon? _

__

_ Use your words, Simon.  _

_ Looking in the bloody blade of his sword, Simon caught a glimpse of himself amongst the red that painted the iron. His dull blue eyes were listless, despite the bright sun. His mouth was etched in a scowl.  _

_ He shook his head and steeled his expression and turned on his heel, back to his father’s castle.  _

_ He was the heir, and that meant he had to put aside his feelings.  _

_ Feelings. _

_ When was...the last time he genuinely felt anything?  _

_ The last time… it had been a rainy day. A rainy day in the castle courtyard. _

_ No— castle cemetery, not courtyard. It had been a rainy day in the castle cemetery when he’d said goodbye to his mum. And ever since then, he’d been his father’s soldier. _

“Simon? Are you listening to me?” Davy snapped, drawing Simon out of his trance. 

Simon flashed him an apologetic look. _ Sorry sir _ , he’d say if he could.

“After your free time today, I’m sending you out to the Old Districts. You’re to talk to some Old Families. Be as  _ persuasive  _ as you have to, understand me?” 

Simon bowed his head.  _ Use your words, use your words, use your words… _

“Yes sir.”

꧁꧂

“Your highness, you requested to see me?” 

That single voice echoed throughout the empty chamber.

Davy looked up from his throne at the woman standing before him. He flashed a grin and a slight nod. He set down a quill and ink he’d been writing with to sit forward in his throne.

“Lady Possibelf, yes. Step forward,” he beckoned, motioning with a single finger. Lady Posselbief nodded briskly and approached the throne, giving a slight curtsey as she did so. 

Lady Possibelf then opened her mouth with a tentative hesitance. Despite having been in the King’s inner circle for so long, it was often difficult to gauge his mood, so she didn’t know how to best approach this.

“If this is about the wedding planning, sir, we have only one thing left to work on, and then everything will be prepared.” She looked up at him, trying to get a read on his expression. Davy sighed and took a more relaxed posture, which in turn relaxed Lady Possibelf.

“It’s in relation to the wedding, yes, but this is in regards to Normals.” He drew out his wand and muttered a quick charm to levitate his papers around him, allowing him to look between his notes more efficiently.

“Of course, sir.” Lady Possibelf watched him scan his notes for a minute, before clearing her throat. “What about them?”

“Well,” Davy glanced at her. “I expect that Normals are against this wedding, seeing as Simon upholds my standards, and also is somewhat of a fear factor for them. I talked to Sir Wellbelove about fortifying the security around the castle during the wedding.” He paused to read a chunk of his notes, nodding, and then shaking his head, and then nodding again, and then scratching out some words with a flick of his wand. Turning back to the woman in front of him, he arched an eyebrow. “I would like to ask you about that team of Mages you put together.”

“Yes, the Mage’s Men, I believe you called them.” Lady Possibelf nodded. 

“Right, them. Are they willing to go out and make sure the normals are behaving during my son’s wedding?” With another flick of his wand, Davy sent all the papers back down to where they’d been resting. Tucking his wand back into his robes, he then stood to pace around, as he so often did. 

“Well considering you’re the king, and you have full control over what they do, yes they are,” Lady Possibelf deadpanned. She never was great at jokes, however, so this one didn’t quite land as intended.

Davy froze and turned to face her. “What was that?”

Lady Possibelf paled let out a weak chuckle. 

“I’m merely teasing, sir. No normal uprisings will be happening, not on my watch.” 

Davy straightened his posture with a small ‘ _ hmph’,  _ as if to prove a point to the woman. “Good good. Now… I’m sure you’re aware of certain… rebellious families siding with these Normals against me, hm?” 

“Yes, sir.” Lady Possibelf nodded, recalling many militia meetings regarding such unfortunate rebel Mages. 

The most prominent name amongst the unruly families was the Pitch family, followed closely by the Grimm family. The oldest two families in the kingdom, dating back to before the Salisbury line even took the throne. 

“I’m sending Simon out to take care of them later, but if such families fail to comply, you will not hesitate to use force on them?”

Davy looked at her with tested patience, and Lady Possibelf understood that, despite the phrasing of the question, there was a right answer. 

“Of course. Sir, if I may ask…” she trailed off, looking up at the King for permission. He was a known short fuse, and Lady Possibelf knew better than to speak out of turn. 

“Go on,” Davy granted with a nod, once again taking his place in his throne.

“Why are the Normals so adamant about causing an uprising?” Lady Possibelf looked at him as she voiced her confusion. “Ever since I’ve been on your royal staff— which had been since you were a little prince— the Normals have disagreed with nearly everything you do. Why is that?”

Davy took a moment to consider this. His head rested in his hands with a heavy sigh, and he groaned slightly. Being king is  _ hard  _ sometimes. 

“Well, Lady Possibelf…” he started, “They are under the delusion that I’m unfair to them. Ever since my poor Lucy was killed by them—”

Lady Possibelf cut him off with a frown.  _ That’s not what had happened _ . 

“But sir, wasn’t Lucy—“

“ _ Quiet _ !” Silence fell over the two of them for a mere moment, before the King cleared his throat and regained his posture. “Ever since the  _ Normals _ caused her death, I’ve simply been treating the normals how they are. Genetically and socially inferior.” He shook his head and waved his hand in a gesture of hopeless thinking. “I fail to grasp why some Mages side with them, when I do everything in my power to make sure the mages of this kingdom can live comfortably.”

Lady Possibelf shifted her weight slightly— standing still for a while had made her antsy— and she looked at the King.

“Perhaps some families are just more empathetic,” she offered with a small shrug. “O-of course their loyalties lie in the wrong side, but maybe it can’t be helped.

“Yes, that does seem to be the problem, doesn’t it,” Davy spat with venom in every word. He sighed once again, “I do hope I don’t have to spill any Mage blood in order to finally get the peace, especially since Mages are off...mingling with Normals these days.” Davy paused. He thought to himself for a minute. “Actually, Possibelf… make a note of that. I should ban weddings and relationships between Mages and Normals. For a little while, at least. There are so few Mages left here that I fear for our survival.”

“Yes, your highness,” Lady Possibelf nodded, using her magic to make a note of it. She had a continuous notebook of all the things Davy had had her write down after an abstract train of thought.

“Splendid.” Davy beamed and sat up straight. “That is all. Please be on your way. If you see Simon, send him my way, please.”

“Of course, sir.” 

Another curtsey, a few more parting words, and a look shared between them, Lady Possibelf was now making her way out of the Throne Room, out into the long stretches of corridors that made up the royal castle. 

Now...where might Simon be. 

꧁꧂

Soft winter afternoon sunlight trickled through the window and into the cozy room, occupied only by two young adults. One sitting stoically in a loveseat while the other was draping herself across him. 

“We’re getting married.”

A pause. 

“Simon, did you not hear me? We’re getting married!” 

Another pause. 

Agatha huffed and sat up, her pale cheeks going red. She waved a hand in front of Simon’s face, trying to draw any semblance of a reaction out of him. All Simon offered was a blink and an easy to miss nod. Agatha rolled her eyes.

“You ought to be happier, Si,” she stated, standing up and brushing down her nice pink dress. Her mother had only gotten her pink clothes recently, but she didn’t mind. Pink was her favorite color.

Simon looked down and scuffed his toe against the floor a bit, not sure how to respond to that.

“You ought to talk more too, you know.” Agatha flipped her hair over her shoulder and began walking around the room. She’d lived in the Royal District her whole life, as both her parents worked directly for Simon’s father, so she was no stranger to lavish rooms with all too much space, such as this one. “I can’t be the one doing all the talking in this relationship.”

Simon simply nodded. Maybe…

Maybe this wedding would be a good thing. Maybe he won’t be so... _ broken  _ once he has a wife, and a kingdom to inherit.

“How about we plan for our future?” Agatha was now standing at the giant floor-to-ceiling window that was filtering light in. “You become the official crown prince in a week, and that means that when your father dies or gives up his throne, you’ll be king. And as your  _ queen _ , I’m going to need you to cooperate in this relationship, m’kay?”

Simon blinked and nodded once more. This did not sit well with Agatha.

Agatha groaned and threw herself back on to a couch. “Simonnnnn. You’re a pain in the ass, y’know. A royal pain in the ass. Say something, Simon,  _ talk  _ to me.”

Simon’s body went rigid. 

Say something, Simon.

You’re a pain in the ass.

“I’m s- I’m so- so- rr…” Simon choked out a few stray syllables before giving up. 

_ “You can kill people, Simon.” Davy spat. “But you can’t speak? What kind of warrior can’t speak?”  _

_ Simon looked down at the unbalanced sword in his hand. He hadn’t even turned 13 yet, and he’d killed his fair share of people. _

_ “That's what you are, son. For now. A warrior. And warriors aren’t a pain in the ass to deal with.” _

His father’s words echoed like a bell inside his head. It was only a minute later when Agatha’s voice penetrated his thoughts that he was pulled back to reality.

“You’re going to have to kiss me, you know.” 

_ What _ ?

“At the wedding,” Agatha clarified once Simon had arched an eyebrow. 

Right. That.

Simon, without intending, made a face, which caused Agatha to roll her eyes. “Oh don’t look so disgusted. All married couples do it. My mother and father kiss each other all the time.” She matched Simon’s disgusted face at the thought. “They also call each other sick names like ‘Sweetberry’ and other gross things like that.”

Is that what people who were in love did? 

Simon had never been in love. He knew that. Looking at Agatha, he felt… nothing. But that wasn’t much different than how he felt otherwise, so he figured he couldn’t draw any reasonable conclusions from that. He hadn’t felt anything in so long.

“Why  _ don’t  _ we snog?” Agatha looked at him. She was now lying in a sunny spot on the floor, which made her platinum blonde hair almost blinding to look at. “I mean we  _ are _ a proper couple, aren’t we?”

Simon mumbled a few unintelligible syllables and shook his head. Agatha looked up at him.

“What was that?” She waited for a response but wasn’t too surprised when none came. “Use your words, Simon.”

Simon blinked and looked over at Agatha lying on the floor, but what he saw there now made his blood run cold.

There, lying in a large pool of blood, her skin was pale, and her hair matted and dirty, Agatha laid dead. 

Shaking, Simon looked down at his own hands, only to see them covered in blood. Her blood. He was holding his sword. When did he summon his sword?

_ He looked up and he saw his father, nodding in approval.  _

_ “That’s it, my boy.”  _

_ Simon’s heart pounded, and his breath came shallow and ragged. He felt himself grip the blade tighter as he approached the next person, who was alive, but bound and gagged. A boy— a  _ Normal  _ about his age. He looked to his father. _

_ “This one too, boy. He’s like all the rest of the Normals.” Davy grabbed a paper being handed to him by someone. His eyes scanned it briefly. “Shepard from the Omah District.”  _

_ Simon watched his father approach the Normal. The sound of fist hitting flesh, followed by the cracking of bones rang throughout the air.  _

_ “Think it’s funny to infiltrate Mage territory, do you?” Davy tightened his fist, ready to strike again. “Think you can, what,  _ make up  _ for all the damage you Normals have _

_ done to this place?” _

_ The boy— Shepard— mumbled something, but Simon couldn’t hear it over the roaring in his ears. His hands were trembling, and his sword was shaking with it, catching the light on the flat of the blade. _

_ “My son, any last words to this Normal?” Davy turned to the trembling prince. _

_ His tongue was lead. It was lead and liquid at the same time.  _

_ I’m sorry…  _

_ that’s what he wanted to say. That’s what he  _ should  _ say… _

_ Right? _

_ “Use your words, boy.” Davy snapped. Simon shook his head. He had nothing to say. Only a job to do. And that was to ensure the safety of his father’s kingdom.  _

_ He took a step towards the Normal. And then another. His grip on his weapon tightened, and he felt a numbness inside of him consume everything he  _ should  _ be feeling.  _

_ “Now, Simon.” Davy said calmly. Simon nodded. He brought the blade up, and— _

“Simon! Simon, I’m talking to you, are you listening to me?” 

Blinking slowly, Simon looked around. He wasn’t on a dingy executioners stand. The person who had spoken— Agatha— wasn’t dead. And the Normal he’d killed— well that was years ago. 

Hitting the side of his head to clear his thoughts, Simon looked back at Agatha. She was standing a few feet away, leaning against the wall.

After taking another minute to gather his wits, slowly shook his head. 

Agatha scoffed and rolled her eyes. “ _ Men _ ,” she mumbled under her breath. “I asked if we were going to plan on having kids. We have to think these things through now, you know, so we know what to expect in married life.”

A sudden knock at the door saved Simon from the need to answer. 

Lady Possibelf stuck her head into the room and smiled warmly. “Well if it isn’t the betrothed couple. Simon, your father has sent for you.”

Simon, thankful for an excuse to leave, offered only a curt nod. He stood up, locking eyes with Agatha for only a moment, before shuffling out to the long corridors. 

Sometimes he was amazed that he was able to find his way through this castle. Sure, he’d lived here his whole life, but so much of the castle was just bland corridors, Simon was often sure he’d gone in circles. 

But now, as he approached, the throne room, he was certain he wasn’t lost. His path lay before him. What his father wanted lay before him. 

“Hello...father…” Simon managed a meek greeting that almost got swallowed whole by the echo of the chamber. 

“There you are my boy,” Davy grinned. Simon noted how he looked no different here than in the flashback he’d just had. Murder in his stare, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and a posture that reads ‘ _ If you value your life, don’t cross me.’ _

He was sure he looked like that too after all his years of killing.

_ “ _ What— what did— what… d-d-d…” Simon tried to finish his sentence, but his voice died somewhere along the way. Davy’s grin quickly turned into a displeased scowl. 

“Fix that stutter.” He ran a hand through his hair and stroked his laughable mustache. “I’m sending you out to the Old Districts. To the Pitch residence. I received a tip that they have aided Normals by sharing wealth, and I would like you to put an end to that through whatever means necessary. Understand me?”

Simon stood up straight and nodded, wordlessly summoning his sword. “Ye-yes- es… yes ir- sir.”

“Dismissed,” Davy said with a flick of his wrist. Simon nodded and, with a bowed head and dread pooling in his gut, he walked out of the throne room, towards the front entrance of the castle.

Time to frighten some Mages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please please comment, I love hearing from y’all


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fell into writers block halfway through this, and had no beta reader. So if it’s a little janky that’s why. 
> 
> I LOVE reading comments so if you have anything at all to say, leave a comment :)

Simon’s sword swung slowly at his side as he watched his steps align with the stones on the street leading to the Old District.

_ “Whatever it takes, boy,”  _ his father’s words echoed in his ear. 

The Pitch family was notoriously opposed to the King. Growing up, Simon learned how they were traitors to Mages, siding with Normals against the policies they called corrupt. Never trust a Mage who trusts a Normal, that’s what he’d been taught. 

Simon knew his father was right. Normals were beneath Mages, and it made no sense why any Mage would associate themselves with any Normal, especially the Pitch family. Simon had been told stories of the Pitches fighting for the honor of the royal Salisbury family. He could recall Sir Wellbelove regaling the stories of Sir Tyrannus Pitch many generations ago, who defended the status of Mages amongst Normals.

So why now did the Pitches hate his father? Were subjects not supposed to be loyal to their king? Were Mages not predisposed to be better than Normals? It made absolutely no sense to Simon.

The prince came to a stop at the junction in the road that marked the outskirts of the Old District. 

He’d killed here before. Right in this crossroads. He had once watched Normal blood pool with Mage blood before draining into the ground. The flowers along the sides of the road had been watered with the blood of his enemies. Hate ran through the life of the plants, and betrayal grew in the weeds of the kingdom. 

Willing his feet to continue moving, Simon brought himself slowly along the path that led to the Pitch residence. 

A breathtaking manor, really. Simon was well acquainted with it, as he’d followed his father here on many occasions. 

_ “Traitors to the Mages are being executed,”  _ Davy had said once, with Simon by his side. He’d been 10 years old, and his face had been hidden by his helmet. A precaution against attacks, that was his father’s reasoning.  _ “I have reason to suspect you’ve given shelter to a Normal, and aided them with magic, such as healing them and giving them food.” _

Simon couldn’t recall the rest of that day. He’d seen someone-- a boy his age-- in that house, and that baffled him. Was that kid being raised to trust Normals? To see them as equals?

That memory faded away as Simon found himself on an ornate doorstep of the Pitch Manor.

Whatever it takes, right?

Slowly raising a fist, Simon knocked firmly on the door. A chilly breeze wrapped around him as the lamp beside him flickered. It was a cold afternoon, and the clouds were heavy in the sky. The mood was set for something grim, and Simon instinctually had his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

He was caught off guard when the door swung open and a young man looked at him.

“Royal guard, hm?” Those were the first words spoken between the two of them after a beat of silence. 

This stranger had a smooth voice, but one that resonated around Simon and settled in the back of his mind. He looked at the man, scanning his face, trying to get a read on those dull grey eyes that so perfectly matched the clouds that were threatening the sky at the moment.

“Well?” The Pitch’s voice broke the silence once again. “What’re you doing here. Come to kill us for the king and his freak son?”

Those words should have hurt Simon. But they didn’t. Because the man in front of him doesn’t know he’s talking to the prince, and even if he did, Simon was sure he’d only be met with more aggression. 

Also Simon wasn’t sure he had any feelings left to hurt. 

“I’m going to leave if you don’t use your bloody words,” the Pitch spat. Simon went rigid. 

Use your words.

Whatever it takes. 

Use your words.

“You’ve made yourself…” Simon began, but his words fell off. He cleared his throat. “You- You have made yourself a pu- a public enemy.”

The Pitch scoffed. “They sent out the runt of the Royal Guard to deal with us? Clearly we aren’t a threat, then.”

“You’re a Mage,” Simon managed. “You-- y-- you--- you--” He shook his head and yanked his sword from his sheath. “Magic is precious. You c-c-c-can’t waste-- you cant- you…” 

The Pitch cocked an eyebrow. “I what?” Simon let a low growl escape from the back of his throat.

“You cannot go around wasting magic on Normals!” Simon took a defensive stance, not even stopping to marvel at how easily he got through that sentence. “Ma- Magic- M- Magic is precious, an-and- and Normals don’t deserve t-t-t-to experience it.”

“You’re a Mage too, and yet you wield a Normal’s weapon.” The Pitch let a devilish smirk cross his face. “What does that say about you?”

Simon narrowed his eyes, and he began to raise his sword, but before he could blink, he found it cast out of his hand by the man in front of him, who was now holding a wand to Simon’s throat. 

“You can go back to your precious Royal Guard and tell them to stay out of our business. You can tell the  _ king-- _ ” the Pitch’s face morphed with disgust, “--that his tyrannical reign will be over one day. I know that the prince is almost of age. The king won’t be able to hide him from the public anymore, and you and the rest of the people that have been senselessly slaughtering Mages and Normals will not be able to protect him anymore.”

Simon took a step back as the Pitch took a step forward. The grey eyes watching Simon turned as threatening as the sky above them. The cowering prince reached for his wand, but like his sword, it was cast off before he could do a single thing about it. 

“We’re supposed to help Normals. You know why?” Simon found himself shaking his head in response to the rather intimidating stare of the Pitch. 

“Because they’re people too.” His impossibly stormy eyes got even darker (if that was even possible), and he pointed his wand at Simon’s chest. “Now I want you to leave. Go back to your tyrant and your coward of a prince and tell them to stay away from my family and all the other families who know what’s right.”

As the door slammed shut in Simon’s face, he fell backwards on to the cold stone of the path. 

Whatever it takes.

Whatever it takes.

Use your words, boy.

Whatever it takes. 

Because they’re people too.

_ Because they’re people too. _

It suddenly occurred to him that, for the first time in his life… he’d not gotten his way. He...had lost this fight. He would have to return home to his father and tell him he’d failed. 

_ “You’re a Salisbury!” Simon had cowered as the king roared in his face. “You are the only heir to the strongest kingdom in the west, and you will  _ act like it _!” _

_ Simon blinked tears from his eyes. “Yes sir…” _

_ “Speak up,” Davy had snapped. “Nobody wants a soft-spoken failure for a king one day.”  _

_ Simon’s tongue turned to lead, and thorns grew around his throat as he tried to comply. He choked out a pitiful sound, and shook his head.  _

_ “Use. Your. Words,” Davy said, his voice dropping from dignified ruler to a primal threat with each word, “What happened today? I told you to kill the young girl and you hesitated.”  _

_ The world was turning grey in Simon’s eyes as panic seized his senses. He could feel the phantom weight of the sword in his hands as he brought it swinging down...and the strain of muscles it had taken to stop the blade before he took someone’s life. His hands shook as he recalled the feeling of once again bringing the blade up, followed by the abrupt silence that was created when the young girl was ripped from life.  _

_ “You are a warrior, yes?”  _

_ Simon nodded. He couldn’t see anymore. He was staring, looking, but not seeing. The king’s voice was miles away, and the thudding of the footsteps made by pacing was even farther. _

_ “I asked— you are a warrior,  _ yes? _ ” The footsteps stopped, and Simon knew something escaped through his own lips, but he couldn’t tell what he said. It seemed to please the king, because the pacing resumed.  _

_ Sir Wellbelove entered the room at some point. He left not long after. The king talked to Simon some more, but he didn’t hear it. _

As the wind blew briskly around Simon, he blinked tears out of his eyes and shook his head free of the memory. The afternoon was quickly chased away by evening, and he was still sat on the path outside of the Pitch manor. 

A glint caught his eye and he looked over to see his sword and wand strewn on the ground, still laying exactly as they had when they’d been cast from his hand. The energy didn’t exist in him to go get them, or even to stand up at all, really. 

A cool breeze nipped at his exposed cheeks, and he drew his knees to his chest. Simon scolded himself for not bringing something to protect against the chill. He tried to warm himself by curling inwards.

It was times like these where only one thought occupied his mind. Where Simon could only draw upon the flicker of a warm memory to keep him going. 

“ _ My rosebud boy.” _

A warm hand on his cheek, and a gentle kiss on his forehead. The blue sky as a backdrop and the soft grass beneath him. 

He tucked his knees close to his chest and openly sobbed as the night got colder around him. 

A warrior never cries. 

Never cries, Simon. 

A warrior… 

If warriors never cry, then what was he? Crying on the front step of his enemies house. Feeling emptier than a void as he choked out pained doubts of his life. 

Unconsciousness found Simon, creeping through his shivering veins and lulling him to sleep in the brisk cold of night. 

——————————

“What’re you still doing here?”

The sharp, snapping voice of the Pitch Simon had talked to yesterday cut through the web of sleep Simon was wrapped up in. 

Simon’s eyes fluttered open and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he looked around, trying to get a grasp on his surroundings. 

Looking up, he saw the pissed-off face of the Pitch. Simon scrambled to his feet to meet him eye-to-eye (or as much so as he can, being three inches shorter) 

The Pitch looked him up and down and scoffed, looking down his nose at the prince. 

“I said what are you doing here?”

Simon blinked and reached for his sword, but stopped himself when he remembered he hadn’t yet retrieved it from where it was tossed yesterday. 

Pitch looked expectant, an eyebrow perfectly arched in anticipation of an answer. 

“I—” Simon cleared his throat, trying to summon the words necessary to explain himself, but he fell short. He shook his head, trying to convey anything at all to the person in front of him. 

“Well?” 

The Pitch’s tone was smooth, causing nerves to spark down Simon’s spine. 

_ Come on, Simon, you’re the prince. You know how to handle people. You’re usually stone cold and stoic, get a grip.  _

“I don’t— I’m not—” he shook his head again as the words once again refused to cooperate. 

A long, uncomfortable silence dragged between the two young men. 

The clouds pulled together, heavy in the sky, and gently, snow began to fall from the sky, framing the tense moment in a flurry of white. 

“Snow,” the Pitch said simply. He looked up and let some snow fall on to his face, some of the flakes getting caught in his long eyelashes. 

Simon watched him curiously. He’d never been allowed to enjoy the snow, being raised in the castle. He looked up as well, and began to feel cold pinpricks nip at his cheeks. 

What else has he missed while he was being raised as a child warrior?

“What the fuck do you want, Snow?” The Pitch looked at him once again. Simon was a little startled by the nickname, though, he decided, it was rather fitting. 

“Here to drag me back to the prince and king?” The Pitch took a step forward, closing a few inches of distance between himself and Simon, who stumbled back, opening the distance once again. “Here to fucking tie me up and decapitate me? Here to string my guts across the town center?” 

Simon frantically shook his head. His fathers voice was echoing in his head. He has orders. Orders to kill. That’s his job to do. Kill the traitors. 

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. Not now, and not anymore. 

“What the fuck are you still doing here.”

Simon looked up to meet grey eyes, impossibly cold with contempt.

“I- I-” he fumbled with his words.  _ Come on Simon.  _ I’m here to demand your loyalty.  _ Say it, Simon.  _ I’m here to kill you.  _ Fucking SAY IT! _

“Use your words, goddamnit!” 

Simon’s blood ran cold, and suddenly he was cowering beneath his fathers throne. He was 10 again, arms and face covered in blood, unable to make a single sound. 

He felt his mouth form the words. He would hear it in his mind. He knew what to say and how to say it but he just  _ couldn’t.  _

A chain was around his throat, separating himself from his words. He fell to his knees, a fiery burning spreading through his chest. 

His hands quaked, and his vision swam, and his thoughts were muddy, and sound was far away and he  _ just _ .  _ Couldnt _ .  _ Speak.  _

“I’m s-s-s— I’m— I’m s- I’m sorry…” 

Tears started streaming down his face at one point. Simon was none the wiser. 

“I can’t— I don’t—”

He was lying in the snow. Snow was cold right? It should be cold? 

He couldn’t feel a thing. 

“I- I-“ 

Mustering the energy to pull himself up and look at the Pitch in front of him, he was surprised to see...concern?

“Hey what the fucks going on, are you okay?” 

It occurred to Simon that there was a hand on his shoulder. Pitch was speaking, but his words were swimming around. Simon was breathing all too quickly, and shaking along with his hyperventilating. 

“N-n- I-I’m f-f I’m f-...” he gasped out a final syllable before his words left him. Fine. I’m fine. Please understand I’m fine. I need to go back to the castle and rest, and I can come back when I’m better.

I’m not supposed to show emotion. 

Simon knew that. 

He knew he was a soldier. A warrior. He was only here to fulfil his father’s purpose, and that was to rule with an iron first. 

“No, you’re not fine, what the fuck is wrong with you.” The Pitch gripped Simon by the shoulders and shook him gently. 

The contact was confining. With just the simple touch on the shoulders, Simon couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move… 

“Use your fucking words, goddamnit, I can’t help if you don’t speak to me.” 

Help. 

Help. 

Help. 

Help. 

Simon looked up at the Pitch, his blue eyes listless against the heavy grey clouds and gently falling snow. 

Help me. 

Help me, I can’t take it anymore. 

Simon let out a trembling sob and collapsed into the stranger’s arms. 

15 of his 20 years alive, he’s spent training and training, and training, and training, and killing, and killing, and killing, and killing. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. 

A hand gripped his face, and he was guided to look back into the Pitch’s dull grey eyes. 

“Holy shit you’re…” The Pitch scanned his face, noticing every flinch, every tremor and every tear that tore itself from Simon. Recognition flashed across his face. “...You’re broken aren’t you.”

Simon nodded ever so slightly and held desperate eye contact. 

“H-help me…”


End file.
